


the hours and times of your desire

by jk_rockin



Category: Le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours | Around the World in Eighty Days - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Master/Servant, Service Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jk_rockin/pseuds/jk_rockin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Mr Fogg, Passepartout had sought a master he could respect, who prized regularity, domesticity and service; he got one. (or, IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER, THE ONE AS MASTER, THE OTHER AS MAN)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the hours and times of your desire

**Author's Note:**

> Some time ago I re-read Around The World In Eighty Days, and remembered how much I love Passepartout. I hadn't read it since I was much younger and much less inclined to write D/s-y pornography, but this, I suppose, is what happens when older, pervier people re-read childhood favourites, especially when those favourites are written by authors as enthusiastic about the Noble Servant trope as Verne.
> 
> The relationship portrayed here is pretty clearly a Master/servant one, but being both Olde Timey and literally an employer/employee relationship, there has probably been very little negotiation as we understand it today. All totally consensual, though! And, I'm afraid, not particularly kinky. Oh, well.
> 
> Title taken from Shakespeare, sonnet 57.

On the mantlepiece, the electric clock ticked over to eight minutes past twelve. Four minutes earlier, Passepartout had entered his master's bedroom, loosened his necktie and shirt-cuffs, and slid to his knees between his master's spread thighs. With a deft, practiced hand he had unbuttoned his master's trousers, parted the flap of his undergarments, and wrapped a firm hand around Mr. Fogg's member.

Now he was busy about his work. In this, as in all things, Mr Fogg required precision and regularity to achieve complete satisfaction. He had instructed Passepartout in the steady stroke of the hand, the motions of the tongue, the perfect suction that best pleased him, and Passepartout had applied himself with enthusiasm to the task, for that noble servant found no better inspiration than in providing all that his master could wish, as adroitly as it could be provided.

He must be patient, smooth, regular. To disrupt his master's rhythm was to disrupt life.

Thirteen minutes past the hour. Mr Fogg lowered his hands from his thighs to Passepartout’s shoulders, fingers squeezing and releasing gently in time to the bob of his valet’s head. Passepartout was not a young man; to say that his master was the first to whom he had given pleasure in this manner would have been falsehood, but it was certainly true that Mr Fogg was the first with whom the act seemed elevated above the gutter. Rushed fumblings in darkened circus tents were one thing. The service of so distinguished a master was quite another.

Seventeen minutes past the hour. Passepartout’s cock throbbed in his trousers. The time drew near at which Mr Fogg usually reached completion. He redoubled his efforts. A roll of the tongue over the crown, always well received, earned him a twitch of the hips that smeared bitter fluid across his palate; Passepartout repeated this several more times to positive results, then bowed his head, resuming the slow, deep suction Mr Fogg liked best, prepared to continue that same suction until his master came.

He had not to wait long. A barely perceptible tightening of his master's hand, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath, was all that served as warning, but these were more than ample to as practiced an observer of that phlegmatic gentleman's habits as Passepartout. He tightened his lips as he felt the first pulse of Mr Fogg's release on his tongue, suckling and swallowing conscientiously so as not to spill so much as a drop. It would not do to soil Mr Fogg's smallclothes.

When Passepartout had finish licking clean his master's softening member, he tucked it neatly away and sat back on his heels. He cleared his throat. "Will that be all, monsieur?"

“No, not quite,” said Mr Fogg, in a voice just slightly rougher than his usual measured tone. “Unbutton your trousers.”

As calmly as he was able, Passepartout complied. This was not always part of it; more often than not, Passepartout would complete his task, and Mr Fogg would go to bed, leaving Passepartout to satisfy himself as he saw fit, but, sometimes, he asked for this, also. At a gesture from Mr Fogg, he drew out his own member, and leaned backwards a trifle, pressing the tops of his shoes flat to the floor. Mr Fogg emitted a quiet sound of approval, and Passepartout began, with a smooth and regular motion, to stroke himself. He did not shut his eyes; Mr Fogg preferred that he did not, on the occasions when this was allowed to him- his master’s gaze upon him as his hand worked.

It would not take long. Mr Fogg’s eyes were on him, measuring his pace, his posture; no wrinkle of disapproval had yet crossed his brow, and while pleasure of this kind was in this circumstance secondary to the purer imperative of service, the combination of the two was particularly intoxicating. He fought the urge to thrust into his fist. Mr Fogg had never given explicit instructions on how he preferred Passepartout to do for himself in this manner, but his general tendency towards dignified efficiency served well enough as a guideline. Perhaps, one day, Mr Fogg would instruct him thus; perhaps this, too, would be laid out for him as thoroughly as were his master’s requirements in all other things. The thought alone caught at Passepartout’s breath.

Mr Fogg reached out a hand to stroke his cheek, and Passepartout turned towards it, revelling silently in the touch of skin to skin. In his younger days, such simple contact would have seemed meaningless, but Mr Fogg did not act thoughtlessly. Every touch, every word, was a considered gift. He bit back a gasp, reaching swiftly for his handkerchief, and came, shuddering, pressing his face into Mr Fogg’s palm.

"My dear man," Mr. Fogg murmured. Leaning forward, he slid his hands into his valet's dishevelled hair, tilting his head that he might better access his mouth, and kissed him. Passepartout revelled in the press of lips, the prickle of neatly trimmed beard, and the luxurious slide of tongue- intimacies the more treasured for their rarity, for Mr. Fogg was not often so demonstrative. “You perform your duties admirably, as ever.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” Passepartout replied. He allowed himself a moment to bask in those words, which were, from a gentleman such as his master, glowing praise, and in the warmth of his master’s touch. From his vantage point, however, he could see the clock on the mantle, and he saw that it was now twenty-five minutes after midnight. He rose, buttoning his trousers swiftly.

Twenty-six minutes past the hour. Passepartout assisted Mr Fogg in undressing, and neatly folded his clothing away as his master arranged himself in bed. “Goodnight, Mr Fogg,” he said, quietly, pausing with his hand on the dial of the gas-lamp.

“Goodnight, Passepartout,” said Mr Fogg. “Do give my regards to Aouda.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Passepartout, and turned out the light. Across the hall, his mistress waited for him to perform his other duties, and it would not do to dawdle. Punctuality was everything.


End file.
